Vengeance
by Min Daae
Summary: Lucivar has only one thing left to live for. Dark oneshot-thing, you know the drill.


He was numb as he was dragged back to the slave pens, dragged into the humid darkness and pushed back into his cell. He did not try to spread his wings, not even to try to dry the wreck of what was left of them. He sank down into a crouch and stared at the blank wall opposite, muddy water dripping slowly down. Once, in a fit of thirst, he'd tried to drink it, but it had tasted of raw sewage and dead flesh. It wasn't worth the little lukewarm moisture it gave.

He could feel his knees trembling and leaned back into the wall, the stone cold on the bare, still raw skin of his back. It didn't matter anymore, though. None of it, _none of it _mattered anymore. It would never matter again.

He called up the one picture he had of her, the one memory, of her standing in the courtyard, head slightly tilted, her blue eyes bottomless and her hair like a golden halo around her small, exotically beautiful face. It was still clearer than any other memory he owned, because he treasured it, thinking it the only glimpse he would have of her for eight years or more. For the years that would pass slowly if at all until he could meet her, serve her. He'd never thought it would be the one memory for a lifetime.

He clenched his jaw and felt the sting of tears beginning in his nose and throat. He bit them back savagely, tasting blood as he bit his tongue by accident. He turned his thoughts to Daemon.

Seven hundred years ago, Tersa had told him that he had a brother, and that that brother was Daemon Sadi. Since then, they'd torn apart countless courts, destroyed countless of Dorothea's witches, fighting side by side for that one thing they were both waiting for, that had been promised them: Witch, a Queen they could serve. So when Lucivar had known that Witch walked the land, he'd known that Daemon would find her, if he could not, that Daemon would keep her safe, and that ultimately, he would find Daemon and, with Daemon, his Queen. He'd trusted that Daemon would protect her with his life. He'd forgotten that some things don't change.

"_Bas_tard," he hissed under his breath, jerking to his feet, shivering. It was cool underground, even with the air still and damp as it was. His wings flared automatically and he tightened his jaw at the stabbing pain where the membrane was rotting away.

Even when he'd been placed here, given a death sentence, it hadn't mattered. Because he'd known that at least Daemon had found Jaenelle, and if he didn't survive to see her…Daemon would take care of her. He'd known that as much as he'd known Daemon's conviction that _he was born to be her lover…_

He wheeled and slammed his fist into the wall with a cry somewhere between rage and anguish. Betrayed. He'd been stabbed in the back before. He'd been whipped to within and inch of his life before. He'd suffered hours of unending pain before. But none of it had hurt like _this_, because she was never going to come, now. She was never going to be his Queen. He would never teach her how to use a knife or an Eyrien stick or how to hunt game and read trails. He would never be able to protect and serve her. Because he had _trusted, _because he'd forgotten what he, of all people, should have known best.

Daemon and the Sadist were not two people. They were one and the same. And Daemon had betrayed him, had betrayed Witch. He thought of the sheet, covered in blood, remembered touching it, and retched savagely, his stomach revolting at the terror and pain he'd felt just at that brief brush with his mind.

"Why," he asked, crossing to the front of the cage, hands curling around the bars where they longed to hold flesh. "_Why?_"

He could not understand, did not understand, and didn't care. In the end, it was all the same. Jaenelle was dead. _Witch _was dead. The last hope had died, and the dark, wet heat in the mines would slowly devour his wings, and then his soul.

He'd told the truth to Dorothea, meant every word. If Daemon came here, when Daemon came here, then Lucivar would be waiting to rip out his heart. He would rip out his own, with it, but that didn't matter. He was dead anyway, and there was only one thing left to live for, one reason to stay alive.

He closed his eyes and tried to call back the image of her, but it wasn't right. Her mouth was slack and open, blood trickling from her nose, bruises on her white throat, splayed on the ground, dirt staining one cheek, limbs limp and lifeless as a doll, the smell of blood harsh in his nose. It didn't take much to imagine Daemon, to imagine him seducing her, drawing her close with the skill he'd used to destroy so many witches – _how could he have forgotten? – _and then –

The Eyrien war cry tore from his throat without him being conscious of making it. He would _not. _He could not –

He bit his lip hard, drawing blood, taking solace in the coppery tang as it dripped over his lip and down his chin. His own blood. His, not hers.

One bright-eyed reason to live. One bright red reason.

He closed his eyes and folded his wings about himself, ignoring the pain. At least there was still pain. Pain meant that he was still alive, still able to fight.

Still able to extract the price from his brother's body. Everything has a price, and this would be Daemon's for Jaenelle's life. Not nearly enough to pay the debt, but it would serve for a beginning, as he would serve for the end.

One drop of blood hit the floor with a small _plip. _Lucivar opened his eyes and looked down at the little drop of deeper black on the gray stone floor.

If he could not live for Witch, then he would live for Vengeance.


End file.
